


choking a tree

by Auredosa



Category: Wizard101 (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Coughing, Flowers, Graphic Body Horror, Hanahaki Disease, Unrequited Love, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:07:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28540053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auredosa/pseuds/Auredosa
Summary: A teacher of earth magic returns to his home world and finds flowers in all the wrong places, for all the wrong reasons.
Relationships: Cyrus Drake & Chester Droors
Kudos: 1





	choking a tree

**Author's Note:**

> I guess I got inspired? I forgot that this trope was a thing. I can't believe I haven't written about it. It fits very well into the wizzy universe. 
> 
> This piece is meant to be an alternate series of events following Dandelions, which you definitely don't have to read to understand this, but I totally think you should :)
> 
> Anyways, enjoy!

the skepticism came first: the flowers followed soon after.

at first, he thought it was a myth, _fitting._ before, it was just a sickness that only existed in folklore and stories. how could plants possibly grow inside one's lungs? it was a horrifying and absurd idea, not just speaking as an earth bender, but as a healer as well. he prayed he would never encounter it among his own students, young and eager as they were.

this, this naïve "before" period that he desperately wants to return to, this is what he thinks about, as he grips his favorite tree with shaking hands and dry heaves towards the ground, until he feels the familiar sting of a pointed stem crawling up his throat and the metallic taste of blood seeping over his tongue.

his fingers trace the outline of a leaf over his heart. the warmth of a spell washes over his chest and through his tunic before fading, fizzling into sparks. a curse falls from his lips and then it's replaced by a fit of coughs. desperate, he commands his body to expel this poison, this parasite, this pathetic ailment, but the theurgy flowing through him decides to nurture the _wrong thing_ and they keep growing. the stems retract into his windpipe and snake back into his lungs. damnit. he squeezes his eyes shut and shoves two gloved fingers down his mouth and forces himself to retch.

his fingers pinch the thin roots before they escape deeper into his body and he pulls. they're sharper than he thought, scratching into the delicate tissue of his esophagus. he won’t be able to talk for days after this. just as he thinks his neck will tear in half, the mass stops coming. he blinks twice, his vision becomes clearer and clearer until sees a beautiful pile of yellow dandelions stained with blood under his chin, stubble dribbling with his own saliva.

he swallows and tastes the acrid pang of not having eaten or drank in the past two days-to starve them out, he intended-and then he straightens up, hearing the city bell chime for another hour of teaching. the last of the phlegm and petals are wiped off with his sleeve. there’s mint in the greenhouse he can chew on, to rid himself of his rotten breath. perhaps he can just pass it off as a cold to the children, but theurgists don't _catch_ colds.

shivering in his coat, even in the spring sun, he starts kicking loose dirt over the plants, missing with his foot the first time. there’s not enough energy left in him to use magic. he's already buried them under a sizeable mound when he realizes they're going cover the entire patch and starve the tree of nutrients. they're weeds, after all. soon there will be a new, innocent circle of yellow buds pushing through the soil. what was once his place of peace and refuge has become the site for a new garden. it’s not a good thing.

as he begins shuffling back inside, he hears the crunch of dead plants in his pocket and instinctively runs his fingers over the dry, fragile flowers. it's merely a bundle of kindling at this point, tied together with a blade of grass, which drags a fresh finger cut over his thumb with its finely serrated edge.

 _"a parting gift,"_ he had said.

 _"they're beautiful,"_ he'd replied.

it's true. they are beautiful, but they made more grow in his heart and now he can't breathe.


End file.
